


More Than the Impala

by yesterday4



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Pre-Series, Wee-Chesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 07:15:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8318803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesterday4/pseuds/yesterday4
Summary: It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out there’s something wrong with Dean.  Dean's unhappy, and John's going to fix it, with a little help from the Impala.  Set in 1984.





	

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out there’s something wrong with Dean. Going on that line of reasoning, it doesn’t take a genius either to look at the signs and know exactly _what_ that something is. Good thing, because John’s not a rocket scientist and… well, _he_ thinks he’s a genius, but he’s a realist too.

Bitch of it is, you can’t even _hunt_ kindergarten.

Dean had started it with an amazing amount of optimism—or any amazing amount of optimism for _Dean_ \--and had had a grand ole time picking out a lunchbox and a matching backpack, even though kindergarten only went to noon and God knew that the little granola bars John sent along as snacks didn’t need a whole box for carrying. He’d gone all out too, John had. Couldn’t start at a new school without a new pair of shoes, now could you, and it was worth the highway robbery he’d endured to see his boy’s face light up at the sneakers that glowed red when you walked on them. Brand new sneakers too, the first he’d had since Mary—

The first he’d had since.

Naturally, there had been a momentary kerfuffle about leaving Sammy alone with the babysitter. John had his problems with that too—Sheila, the sitter, lived in the same motel as them, and had questionable employment all hours of the night—but he’d gotten on at a shop part-time in town and there was no way around that. Money didn’t grow on friggin’ trees, and the boys got along with her okay. Not that that makes it any easier to fork over fifty bucks a day, but those are the breaks; as Sheila had mentioned half a dozen times, Sam _is_ a handful, hobbling all over the place like a baby on speed.

Anyway, Dean’s optimism had been short lived. John had noticed how glum he was growing—hard to miss how solemn and quiet, but he’d taken the kid to a shrink after… after, and so John knew to be patient and understanding. He’d tried to draw him out, had asked him what felt like hundreds of times what was eating him, but Dean was a tough little sucker, and never really had much to say. 

Which, as Sheila pointed out in that grating voice of hers, was _exactly_ the problem.

She’d called him up at the shop, and she’d said, “Not trying to intrude on anything personal, you know. Just wanted to let you know that Dean has said exactly nothing all day.” 

John’s heart had skipped a beat, and he’d been so scared shitless that it shocked him silent too. John remembers those horrible months afterwards, when the only thing just as absent as his beloved wife had been the sound of his son’s excited babble—the sound of his son’s petulant little _whine_ even, because God knew John would have settled for even so much as one lippy little squeak. Never really knew what set Dean talking again, though he suspects it might have been one little brother, but he does remember treasuring each word that fell from Dean’s lips as precious gems. 

And not again. John refuses to go through that again. 

So, he’d booked the afternoon off at the shop and had thrown a couple extra tens at Sheila to make up for any extra time Sammy’d be stuck with her. Isn’t a Sammy occasion, this afternoon, and John doesn’t want to take away from it. Not at all. Babies don't really take well to interventions, now do they.

He finds his son waiting amongst a sea of mothers with their children, sitting alone on a bench with an absolutely forlorn look on his face. Flashing sneakers are scuffing against the sidewalk and he’s making his way through a bag of sour jelly candies without any apparent glee. Staring at those mothers with a detached frown, John realizes in a painful instant. 

“Hey, little buddy,” John says, when he’s close enough.

Dean jumps at his father’s voice; looks pleasantly surprised for a second, before that surprise gets chased away by concern.

“Where’s Sammy?” Dean asks, and John’s happy to hear him speak all over again. Not so bad then, not yet. Dean cranes his neck to try to see behind his father. “Where’s Sheila?”

John tries to sound hurt. “Having themselves an afternoon without me. Thought I’d come see if you were busy.”

Dean frowns again, before shoving a hearty handful of candy into his mouth. The sour sugar makes his lips pucker, and John laughs a little under his breath.

“Did you fix all the cars today?” Dean inquires, all responsibility.

John pretends to count on his fingers all the cars he’s looked at, and then nods at his son. “Yup, all done. Where’d you get that candy from?”

“Mrs. Turner gave them to me because I’m good.” There’s back story here, John can hear it, but Dean doesn’t elaborate. Instead, he stands up and shoulders his backpack. Stuffs the candies into his pocket and tentatively adds, “Are you sure you want to hang out with me?”

It’s an odd question, but John lets it slide. Instead, he reaches forward to playfully cuff Dean on the back of the head, which makes his son smirk, but not quite smile. Offers down a hand, and is immediately rewarded when chubby fingers, sticky with candy, find his.

“Dude, are you sure you want to hang out with _me_?” John shoots back, before swooping Dean up so fast that the kid lets out a squeal and nearly kicks John in the face for the efforts of settling him up on his shoulders. 

“Daddy,” Dean implores, shoving those sticky hands of his into his father’s hair. “Course I do, silly.”

John squeezes Dean’s legs in response, and makes sure to bounce his steps on the way to the car, even though Dean is quiet above him, and does not giggle.

**

Dean’s seriousness is less noticeable in the Impala. Once John’s got him buckled into his booster seat in the back, he cranks up the music and sings loudly enough that there’s not much else to think about. Gets back to the shop in no time flat, and parks far away from all the other cars.

“You’re working?” Dean asks, disappointment marked in his tone.

“Nah,” John replies. “Something better.”

He’d brought along a beer and an icy bottle of lemonade from the motel, and, after helping Dean out and up, he cracks them open and sits on top of the hood of the Impala, warm still from the engine and the fall sunshine. Stretches his legs out along the hood and relaxes against the windshield, smiling when he sees Dean copy his posture. Knocks the neck of his beer against the neck of Dean’s lemonade and says, “Cheers.” The sour candies make a reappearance, and he accepts a small handful when Dean offers to share.

For a five year old, Dean takes silent sitting on top of the Impala for longer than John thinks is strictly natural. Then, smashing his head into John’s arm, he asks, “What _are_ we doing?”

John throws an arm around his boy and takes a swig of beer, even though it tastes funny mixed with the candies. 

“We are hanging out with the Impala,” John tells him.

Dean’s brow scrunches, and he doesn’t look sure about the idea, but he sags into John’s side anyway, lemonade bottle drooping in his lax grip. John stares at his son’s sneakers, pressed against the knees of his own jeans, and feels a rush of love so large for someone so small that he clears his throat and swallows hard.

Seems like as good a moment as any. Gently, he asks, “Gonna tell me what’s bothering you at school?”

Dean stiffens all along his side and sits up straighter. Shakes his head. “Nothing’s the matter at school, Dad.” And then, stubbornly, “I love school.”

Yeah friggin’ right, John thinks, but he shrugs anyway. “You don’t have to tell me. It’s cool. Hold my beer, would you?”

And John leaves him sitting on the hood. Runs into the shop and finds what he needs. Dean is still on the hood when he comes back, double fisting it with the lemonade and beer, but he hops off when he sees his father approaching.

“Wanna help me clean the car?” John asks, wishing he hadn’t done the outside only yesterday. 

The word _clean_ makes Dean scowl, which at least makes him look normal. Makes John want to laugh too, because he can see the moment Dean decides what the hell, he’s already come this far. 

Back inside the car they go, Dean in the front seat this time, and John shows him the spray bottle of ArmourAll he’d borrowed from inside. Thinks this is a pretty fucked up idea. Thinks that someone could have done a helluva lot better by his boy than this.

_Stuck with me, kiddo_.

“This here makes the dash shine,” John tells Dean. “You can squirt it all over, but not on the windshield.”

Dean turns the bottle over in his hands and says, “Why?”

“Streaks,” says John, and shudders. “It’s a big boy job, dude. Takes lots of aim. Got it in you?”

Dean nods fast once he learns it’s important, and takes a great deal of time spraying down his half of the car, face marred by a perfectionist’s frown. John helps him onto his lap, and waits patiently for his son to spray down the driver’s side too.

“Did I get the windshield?” is the next breathless question.

A little near the far driver’s side corner of the dash but, “Nope! Couldn’t have done it better myself.” And his son’s face flushes with pride, which is a damned delight to behold.

John’s got rags made from an old t-shirt in the backseat of the car, and he gropes around to find them. Hands one to Dean, and keeps one for himself.

“Gotta really work it in there,” John instructs, demonstrating, “and make sure to wipe the same amount everywhere.”

ArmourAlling gets more fun once Dean can see the shine on the dash. He’s always been a task orientated boy, and sets to work with steady enthusiasm, smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“You’re going to have the cleanest car in the whole world, Dad. The Impala’s gonna shine!”

“No one deserves it more than she does,” John decides.

Dean says Impala under his breath, smirking and dragging out the _Im_. John leans back in his seat and watches his son work, smiling proudly himself.

“Did you know there’s an animal called impala?” John asks. “Like Mustangs are named for horses.”

“Is an impala a horse?”

“Nah, but it’s smart still. They always use the same place for the bathroom.” Or so the television had said. “And they’re fast, which is why they got a car named for them.”

Dean nods, going up on his knees to reach the area closest to the windshield. John watches tiny fingers working the rag, and wishes and wishes for something that he can’t even name. Something _better_ for this boy.

“Wanna know something else about the Impala?”

Dean casts him a questioning look, but is too busy scrubbing to ask just what.

“The Impala’s magic,” John confides. 

The rag stops scrubbing and Dean stares, curiosity flashing across his features. Kid had always liked magic.

Wondering where exactly he was going with this, John continues, “Sure is. Can calm you down. When I’m sad or scared, I just take her out for a drive and we visit together. Lets me yap my way through all sorts of problems, and she can keep a secret like you wouldn’t believe.”

“It’s a _car_ , Daddy,” insists Dean, but he falls back onto the seat, rag forgotten, and frowns with concentration. “Cars can’t talk.”

John shrugs. “She doesn’t have to talk, son. Our baby here? She _purrs_.”

“Like a cat?”

“Like a cat.”

Dean thinks about this. “And she never says anything that you tell her?”

“Not a word. I’ll even get out,” he offers. “Give you two a minute alone.”

Dean looks away, staring out the window, and is quiet for a long time. Lost in thought, John thinks, and he’s never liked to see Dean go all inside his head like that. After a moment, Dean sighs and turns to face him again.

“Is… what if the secret makes her not _like_ you?”

The question makes John see red, imagining all the things that could make Dean use that horrible helpless tone of voice. Some little fucker is going to die if that tone is justified and—

“She’d never judge a thing,” John assures him. “She’ll be your best friend when you’re sad. Nothing you tell the Impala will make her not like you.”

Dean nods, considering, before slumping down further into the seat. Looks pathetic and sad when he blinks to himself a few times, and, even though John is staring hard, Dean won’t meet his gaze.

Under his breath, he murmurs, “No one at school likes me. They think I’m weird.” And then, “Mrs. Turner gives me candy to make me not feel sad, not because I’m good.”

Is there a colour redder than red? John stares at Dean in disbelief, and cannot for one second believe that those snotty faced little shits at his school don’t like him. Not his son, who can be all kinds of quirky funny when entertaining Sam or himself. Not his boy, who found his voice to comfort his brother. Not his son, who pretended never to be sad for his father’s sake. Not his brave little man. What kind of freaks live in this idiotic town?

“Those little shits,” John says, without thinking.

Dean jumps at the bad word and turns to him, eyes wide, and well… the less biased part of John gets it, and that makes it all worse. Of course the other kids don’t like Dean, his quiet serious little son. His boy, who has refused to play normal games for so long that John isn’t sure he remembers them. His son, who never laughs properly, no matter how funny anything is. His brave little man, who has survived more than any of those spoiled babies can even imagine. 

He’s too angry at everything to say anything.

It’s Dean who speaks next, voice pitching and terrified. “Does the Impala still like me?”

And that right there hurts. He looks at his son good and hard, and is too sorry still to spit out anything more than, “Course the damned car likes you, boy” which doesn’t even begin to cover it. Dean looks relieved, and that makes it even worse for John. 

“Those kids are friggin’ idiots, kiddo. _Blind_ idiots too. Not liking _you_.” 

Sighing, he reaches into the back again to where he’d lined up their bottles carefully against the seat. Hands his son his lemonade, and drains almost the rest of his beer, which has gone warm in the car. Dean takes careful sips, and now that the truth is out, his lips are trembling. John reaches across the distance, and ruffles his son’s hair.

“Dude?”

Green eyes smack into him, and John swallows hard when he sees that they’re turning red—that _Dean_ is turning red all over really, trying not to cry.

“Know who likes you a hell of a lot more than the car?”

Dean shakes his head and stares down into the bottle. _No one_ his posture says. John swallows again. Has to do a lot of that lately, must be the beer. Sighing, he reaches out and yanks Dean down the bucket seat until they are sitting exactly side by side. 

“ _I_ like you, son,” John murmurs. “I like every weird little thing about you.”

Dean’s cheeks flush pink and he flops into John’s side. “Like you too, Daddy.”

“I like you even more than I like the Impala,” he asserts, leaning down to press a kiss into sandy brown hair. “So there. That’s a lot.”

“Lots and lots,” Dean whispers, pressing tightly against his father. 

John extends the beer bottle again and clunks it into Dean’s lemonade. Says once more, “Here’s to not hating each other. Cheers!”

And he shows Dean, who at the very least has stopped sniffling, how to thump his drink for good luck.

**Author's Note:**

> Supernatural does not belong to me!


End file.
